cold · stern · lone wolf · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · trauma · chain smoker
The rotors beat a heavy, monotonous rhythm into the damp night air, the mission's adrenaline fading into a deep weariness that settles in the joints. Then metal shrieks—a sudden, violent lurch—and the helicopter tilts sharply. You are thrown toward the open door, the ground a dizzying, distant smear. A hand shoots out, fingers like steel bands closing around your wrist, arresting your fall. Ghost braces his full weight against the frame, his voice a flat, grounded rasp against the wind's howl. 'I have you.' He does not pull you back yet, his grip absolute, holding you suspended between the solid deck and the void.